


Oranges and Lemons

by sevensilvermagpies



Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015), And Then There Were None - Christie
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Kink, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Murder, Rough Sex, Smut, just a little, mr & mrs owen au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:55:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26884729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevensilvermagpies/pseuds/sevensilvermagpies
Summary: Guests usually aren't invited to the honeymoon. Mr and Mrs Lombard make an exception.Death is not a new sight, nor the rush of power any less delightful as she stands tall over his twisted corpse. But the gorey truth of death has never been her thing, she who coaxes people into an endless and romantic sleep. She can feel all eyes in the room turn to her as she whimpers, and she does not have to pretend to be shaken right to her core. A white handkerchief drifts into her view, offered by the judge's kindly old hand, a simple kindness that only serves to make her stomach churn more violently. And yet deep in the twisted heart of her, desire flares to see Philip staring at her bloodstained face and lick his lips.
Relationships: Vera Claythorne/Hugo Hamilton, Vera Claythorne/Philip Lombard
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	Oranges and Lemons

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: violence, murder, (narrative makes no attempt to condemn their actions), mild gore, no explicit consent given in text but everything between the two is consensual, one brief moment of violence within a relationship.

_She smiled down at Cyril’s trusting little face. "How happy we'll be when we have everything."_

Unfortunately, Hugo didn’t turn out to be her everything. Oh he had plenty of love to give her, and plenty of money - money that was her’s by right. She had toiled for it with blood, sweat, and crocodile tears. It didn’t seem like a very good trade when everything was said and done. Sure not having to chase screaming children around a muddy field in order to afford the basic necessities was nice and all, but she needed excitement. Something new to sink her teeth into, to drag down into the dark.

They meet at a weekend party in London. 

First he insults her. Then he insults everyone except her, all whilst aiming the most disarming smile in her direction as if to say, “you are not like them. It’s us against them.” He says as much to her later, in the wee small hours of the morning when she finds him crouched over the guest bathtub, slowly draining the life from a man. The wood grain of the door is almost as rough against her back through her thin robe as the calluses of his hand are across her mouth. As the stranger’s life drips out onto the floor, heat rises in her like a flame. Here is someone who could understand her.

She returns to her room some time later, sated and sweating sweetly, only for the body of Hugo to send her high crashing down to earth. A critical eye sweeps over his sleeping form. If she could be bothered to feel guilt perhaps it might strike her as unkind, that he had come to this event at her request, but that by the end of the evening she is resolved to leave him behind. Sleep doesn’t visit that night, mind awhirl with plans. This, unlike Cyril, will require carefully playing of a long game. She has had Hugo for a year, and will have to keep him for at least another before he can be thrown away. It will be trying, but she’s sure she can find some pretence to make her way into the darker parts of the city, or else Philip can polish himself up to fit in amongst the old money crowd the Hamiltons are intertwined with. 

Soon enough she is sat in front of the mountainous mahogany desk of Mr T. Farrell of Farrell, Jones, & co. The accountant writes out sombre cheques for black crêpe as Mrs Hamiliton sobs into her shoulder, but Vera can only smile. 

They take two years to set it up. A long engagement. Buying the island under a pseudonym, setting up the sound system, sending letters to all the party guests. The poem is Vera’s idea, she has always loved twisting people into doing what she wants, but the choice to pick other killers as their victims is Philip’s - revelling in the twisted faux-justice of it all. 

Sitting in a second class train carriage has never been so thrilling. She can feel the secure weight of Philip’s gaze, trailing teasingly up over her legs. She glances over just in time to see his eyebrow quirk up at the sight of her exposed garter, and the embarrassed blush that paints her cheeks is real. 

She hides within the huffing, fidgeting character she has crafted, awkwardly pulling her battered suitcase down from the shelf and storming off to pick a higher class compartment to complete the journey in. To her delight she not only passes one of their little mice on the way down the train, but finds the Judge sleeping alone. Yes, she thinks, this one will do nicely. 

Narracott is there to take them over. He winks at her - masking it in a sleazy comment about the other guests, seeming to delight in his role as the provincial fisherman. She wonders absentmindedly if he will keep the beard. 

The first kill is hers, a wedding gift from her new husband. The shock on Marston's face as he fights for air, dancing to the tune of the other guests’ screams, is even sweeter than she had imagined. 

He falls on her still warm; twitching and thoroughly unpleasant. A little shriek erupts from the corner of her mind that still revolts at the threatening weight of a man on top of her. She is only smothered for a second before Philip helps pull him off. Something is wet on her cheek, sticky beneath her shaking fingertips. This was new. Uncomfortable. 

Death is not a new sight, nor the rush of power any less delightful as she stands tall over his twisted corpse. But the gorey truth of death has never been her thing, she who coaxes people into an endless and romantic sleep. She can feel all eyes in the room turn to her as she whimpers, and she does not have to pretend to be shaken right to her core. A white handkerchief drifts into her view, offered by the judge's kindly old hand, a simple kindness that only serves to make her stomach churn more violently. 

And yet, deep in the twisted heart of her desire flares to see Philip staring at her blood stained face and lick his lips. 

Mrs Rogers was so easily spooked, hunched under the weight of expectations, that Vera thought she would be an easy death. But years of manual labour had made her strong. From the room behind her she can hear the bedframe rattled, and Philip grunt softly with effort. In front of her the beige wall of the servant’s quarters stretched on into the dark end of the hallway like a desert, broken only by patches of damp and cracks of peeling paint. Her mouth is dry, anticipation building up inside, filling all her senses till all she can think about are the quiet noises from behind. 

If Philip wasn’t preoccupied he’d scold her for being such a poor lookout. Maybe he still would, when he finished and found her still entranced. Maybe he’d take her across his knee, or against the wall in the same room he’d just killed in, with the same hands.

The sharp crack of flesh on flesh makes her flinch, reality slamming into her lungs as hard as Philip’s hand slams into her face. She doesn’t hesitate to strike back, bringing her knee up hard towards his crotch, but he hops back out of the way like a shot cracking his head against the wall. They both pause, dragging in deep breathes, ears pricked for any sound of disturbance from the rest of the house. Nothing. When it’s clear they will remain undisturbed Vera turns sharply on her heel, putting Philip and his infuriating face at her back.

She really had been such a pitiful little creature, Mrs Rogers, and was even more so in death. The dead woman's skin, porcelain where it had once been flushed red with kitchen heat, was still warm under Vera’s fingertip as she gently pressed her jaw closed. Her finger continued its solemn appraisal of the poor woman’s face, taking time to brush hairs back into place, until it looked like she had simply fallen into a peaceful slumber. 

It seemed like an age, those precious seconds of silent work, till she feels Philip’s breath ghost over her neck above the slipping neckline of her robe. She tilts her head to let him press a silent apology into the crook of her neck, finger still ghosting over the rapidly cooling body below them. As it gently passes over the bruised cheekbone she huffs a soft laugh. 

“You better not have done that to me.” 

“I would never dare to leave a mark, _Mrs Lombard_.”

For his tease she turns in his embrace to press a kiss to smirking lips, more pain than affection. She draws back, to admonish him further or plead for more she’s not sure, but he doesn’t let her go. With a sharp tug he pulls her off balance and back into him, beckoning further with teeth and hands till they’ve tipped themselves out the door and into the hallway wall. Finally she wrestles free of his grasping hands, though she can’t escape his ministrations entirely. Not that she wants to.

“Take me to bed, _Mr Claythorne._ ”

It's Vera who kills the General. 

She hadn't necessarily wanted to, prefered methods of killing that achieved the desired outcome neatly, cleanly. Prettily, Phillip calls it, murmuring bloody praises into her skin. He had been so insistent that night way back in the spring of their affair, as they planned their honeymoon tangled up together on Hugo’s bed, that she take a turn killing his way. He had been persistent, bringing her to the edge again and again but never quite tipping her over until she whines an agreement. 

The General would trust her to get close enough, whilst distracting Tubbs would form Philip's alibi; the perfect set up. In practise it goes less perfectly. Without Phillip there to shield her from self-doubt it takes a few awkward, barely there swings before she really gets into the rhythm of it. Somewhere between his final cry of pain and running out of skull to break the muscle memory of her rounders form returns, and the bat begins to feel like an extension of her own arm. 

When she’s done it falls from her hands, and she almost raises them to the heavens and screams. With joy or with horror she’s not sure. The heavy beat of her bloodrush begins to press onto her when she brings her hands into view to wipe the sweat from her brow and realises the mess she's made of her nice blue jacket. Elation twists into the sour taste of dread. She can’t go back to the house like this, she can’t, she can’t... 

The sea! Of course. She sets to scrambling down the rocks beyond, not feeling the tearing of her palms beyond filing the sensation away as a problem for later. She loses the jacket in a rockpool on the tideline, wading into the deep saltwater embrace. Surrendering to the freezing embrace she bends to sink below the surface, praying the numbness in her fingers and toes spreads all the way into her thoughts. 

“Miss Claythorne? Miss Claythorne!!” 

Something tugs at the edges of her mind but she bats it away. It just continues, drumming away at her skull, demanding her attention. Suddenly there's a hand at her elbow, guiding her to lean against warmth. Philip? 

“Miss Claythorne!”

No. The Judge. He’s surprisingly strong, or her body’s more willing to leave the water than her mind, because he guides her back to shore without a struggle. Where’s Philip? She wants Philip. She doesn’t realise she’s murmuring it until the judge gives her a worried look and asks her to speak louder. Her mind has twisted around itself and all she can do is shake her head numbly in response and grasps harder at his arm as they stumble together, young leaning on old, back up the long path to the house.

Phillip takes care of Rogers, comes back shaking with adrenaline and covered in blood. He’s shiny raw, and slick with it, so much so that she can’t help but take a taste. 

She draws one out of him right there against the door to take the edge off, breaking off to let him paint himself before going right back to suckling until his moans turn into whines and the bloodlust has drained from his eyes, leaving pure need. The handkerchief used to wipe his hands of the worst of the gore before coming back upstairs dangles temptingly from the pocket of his trousers. Plucking it out, she daintily pats her mouth like she’s savouring the last bites of a three course meal before softly wiping the mess off his stomach as he pants above her. It is an uncharacteristic act of kindness. For that she thinks, she deserves a reward. 

Their eyes lock as she pushes herself back up to her feet. There is a pause for a heartbeat. A breath. The room hangs heavily with silent anticipation. He opens his mouth to speak but she doesn’t want to hear it, pulling him around off balance and down on the bed to put his tongue to work. 

She cries out softly once, twice, pulling back when it threatens to overwhelm her, letting him gulp in mouthfuls of sweet oxygen. His mouth glistens pink with slick and blood, pupils blown with desire, whilst red traces track down her inner thighs. The silence is sweeter now, yet still so delicate. Philip doesn’t seem to have got the message though, Vera can almost see the words bubbling up in his throat. In a spark of annoyance she swipes the handkerchief from where it has fallen on the bed beside them, pressing it instantly into his mouth until he almost chokes on it. 

It takes his tongue out of action, but that’s already done it’s job of loosening her up deliciously, and she sinks down on what she really wants. Her soft heat punches a moan out of the body below her, muffled around the makeshift gag, and it only spurs her on to take and take and take. 

In the end they have to burn the sheets.

"Don't go downstairs, not with those two." 

This isn't part of the game. The next drag of his cigarette is shaky, as if it was his first. 

"What, Wargrave and Armstrong?" 

His tone frustrates her. He of all people should know she can handle herself, especially against a dying judge and a doctor barely clinging to his sobriety. Rage roils within her, the high from the kill of saintly Miss Brent still thrumming through her bloodstream. 

That had been a moment of pure satisfaction, so neatly poetic to be killed with her own knitting needle - carefully sharpened with one of Philip’s knives. And to think the original plan had been to poison her, a plan that went out the window as soon as she opened her mouth and spat vile disguised as kind words over Vera’s polite conversation. She had almost wanted to step into view, let her know who had killed her, but to die knowing all the answers was a death too good for Miss Brent. Yet apparently going downstairs alone was too dangerous. Disgust curls her lip and sets her brow in a frown. Philip doesn’t seem to care.

"You wait up here for me." It’s not a request. He leaves her alone with her, shuts the door firmly but gently, with a care that's usually only ever reserved for her. 

Things start to go wrong. 

The gun gets stolen. That’s okay, there's more hidden around the house. 

Armstrong accuses Phillip. Phillip accuses him back, turning around to rip into Blore in turn - revenge Vera thinks, smiling, for daring to question the integrity of his wife.

The others insist on searching the house. That’s even more fun. Her careful fingers find the 5 inch knife taped to the underside of his chest of drawers, and tap out a taunt in their own bastardised version of morse code.

“One to me.” 

It becomes a race. They both took care of hiding their own weapons around the house, so whilst she runs her fingers through every crevice for signs of a gun, he sniffs every jar in the pantry for the sweet stench of poison. 

By the time the group has ransacked every room in the house, excepting the ones repurposed as mausoleums, Vera has found every gun, knife, and poisoned dart she recognises from Philip’s arsenal. Philip misses one slick little razorblade tucked just out of sight in a painting’s frame, so she ties him up that night to paint the prettiest picture on the skin of his thighs in thin red lines. 

The judge is neither of them. 

Armstrong isn’t exactly subtle when he whisper-shouts his suspicions to a half-unconscious Blore as they sway to the tinny tune of the record player. 

“Watch them, watch them!”

Yes, Vera thinks, dancing her fingers lightly against the soft fabric of Phillip’s shirt. Watch us. Look upon our works ye mighty and despair. She turns into the warm shoulder beneath her cheek as Philip starts to whisper promises into her hair, watching Armstrong out the corner of her eye. His scarlet cheeks deepen with every passing second.

“Mr and Mrs Owen!” He whimpers from across the room, “it's them, it's them, it's them...” 

His moans fade out into the swell of the music, and the sudden explosion of frustration from Blore. It shatters their peaceful dance, sending them scurrying away into the safety of their own rooms. 

“Did you do it?” He whispers to her, under their bed sheets that night. 

“No.” She whispers back, feeling the thrill of fear rush through her, chasing the thrill of arousal.

She knows they should sit down. Figure out what's gone wrong with their plan. Knows that they’re in danger now, true and proper. But she can't bring herself to stop him pressing into her. He drives down into her again and again and again until she throws her head back in ecstasy. Her eye catches on the hook in the ceiling. For a split second she sees the judge’s body dangling there twitching, dancing in a death jig where it belonged - where it was supposed to be. Then she’s tumbling into a white hot ravene of pleasure, surrendering to the lightning feeling through her core. 

When she opens her eye the image of Wargrave is gone, the hook bereft of its decoration. They are alone.

They’re not alone for long. The sound of a fist upon wood drags her mind from the edges of rest and her warm pillow from under her. He tears back the sheets, tugging on trousers and the door to reveal Blore lurking in the hallway - half-stunned, half-incensed. Their conversation is short and sharp, Philip leaves no room for arguments, though he needn't have worried. Fear and exhaustion weigh on her eyelids, leaving her at once heavy with lethargy and thrumming with anxious energy. The wrong side of drunk and fucked out to be of any use, she slinks back into bed, leaving the men to run around in the rain. But sleep doesn’t come. 

The next day brings the return of the missing gun but not the missing guest. 

Blore is unravelling in front of them as they sprawl around the dining table, now littered with the sad detriments of last night’s activities. His accusations bounce between the two of them. Phillip in response switches out sarcastic jabs with offended defenses. It’s delicious to watch.

Vera keeps quiet, pulling the lie of a shaking, traumatised woman around herself like a second skin. She can’t tell if it would be more fun to break now and watch the shock of realisation break like a wave across his face, or whether to wait it out until the end, letting the paranoia swell in him like the tide. Philip is an excellent actor, almost as good as her, so she’s not entirely sure whether the insistence of not finding Armstrong rings truthful. The ambiguity sends a thrill sparking up and down her spine. 

Finally she throws in the red herring clue to shut Blore up but he just steamrolls on. It takes talking to him like a frightened animal to get him to settle, and slowly, carefully, she can lay the breadcrumb trail of suggestions to the conclusion of Armstrong’s guilt. The hardened policeman becomes soft and pliable under the weight of their combined stares. He screws his eyes shut to process this new train of thought, giving Philip’s satisfied smirk ample time to stretch across his face. Blore wails again, dropping his head into his hands with a desperate cry to his tomatoes, and she returns it threefold. 

They leave Detective Sergeant William Blore in the hallway where he fell. It doesn’t seem worth it to carry him back up the stairs, and the pick up is only in a few hours. 

Instead they head out to the rocky crags that surround the landing cove. Phillip bitches on the way about getting soaked running around in the rain the night before, not even to get the satisfaction of killing “that hysterical bastard Armstrong.” He’s definitely dead, that’s clear as they peer down at him from the cliff top, red bright against the sharp grey rocks and rolling dark water. She suggests moving him, more out of politeness than any real concern, and Philips' aghast face at the thought is amusing. In the end, they decide to abandon him too. He isn't worth anything to them anymore.

A storm is drawing in, the sky heavy and dark despite the early hour, the air cackling with anticipation. Her gaze strays to the horizon, where she knows the mainlane stretches out across the border between sea and sky. Right now it's naught but a smokey haze trapped between two churning spheres. Despite the weather it’s all far too silent and still. Soon they will be back in the city, watching life in all its indignities pass by, but for now it is just them and nature. Them, nature, and their little red herring. Philip’s mind appears to be wandering the same roads as he turns to her with a wry smile.

“I reckon that means our friend the honourable judge is still alive. Perhaps you’ll get to see him swing after all my darling.”

This time the judge is both of them.

A clean shaven man in a suit which, although mended by a talented hand, has definitely seen better days, steps gingerly off the boat and onto the damp sand of Soldier Island. He takes in the sight of a knot of figures sheltering under the cliff face with a careful eye, counting 3 blobs of dark clothes and dark hair against the white cliffs. One, navy jacket buttoned hastily over a knit jumper, must be the local chappie - complete with little notebook and pen. The other two look utterly disinterested in each other, total opposites whose world’s have never had cause to collide until this moment. 

“Sir!”

The bobby hails him, leaving the two strangers to shrink back against the cliff face, as if they can escape the rain which has just begun to fall. The sand beneath his feet is solid enough that he doesn’t feel as if he is about to fall and make a fool of himself as he trudges forward to meet the figures. 

“Detective Sergeant Maine I presume? I understand you have caught a particularly large fish with this one.”

“Ah, yes sir. It’s a right headscratcher tha’s sure.”

The weather decides it is not being suitably dramatic and empties the heavens upon them. The detective grumbles as he pops the collar of his jacket in a pointless gesture. “Is there not somewhere we could talk inside Maine?”

“Well sir,” the sergeant blathers awkwardly, falling a respectful half step behind his stride, “thing is, it's a crime scene. All of it.” 

Damn. 

The woman - Miss Claythorne, Maine supplies helpfully, newly hired secretary to Mrs Owen - appears to have accepted that they won’t be going anywhere soon and has perched atop her suitcase, hands folded neatly in her lap. The gentleman stands, facing just away from them, hands twisting behind his back. His stance could almost be called deferential, if he didn’t look like he was ready to pounce at any time. Mr Lombard, gentleman’s gentleman to Mr Owen. Also newly hired. 

“And you both arrived in Devon today?” Twin nods meet his gaze and hold it, daring him to question them and make them sit in the downpour any longer than necessary. Maine, just as eager to escape, jumps to attention. 

“They says they was brought over by a Mister Narcotta-”

“Narracott. Yes I’ve spoken to him already.” His face twitches almost imperceptibly. “He’ll corroborate their story, though not in the politest of language.” The rain seems to get even heavier, fair pelting them now, hard enough to sting.

“Look, you’d best be heading back to the mainland before the sea can’t be crossed. Give the detective sergeant the contact of someone who can swear you weren’t in the area before today; a landlady, pastor, butcher’s boy, whoever. If you didn’t see anything I don't imagine we’ll be needing you again.”

Despite the cutting cold neither seem to shiver, simply nodding their assent before picking up their cases. He watches them go, Maine shuffling after them, until they transfer to the sturdy motorboat anchored amongst the swells and roar off towards the docks. Shrugging off the sense of foreboding he turns away from the waves and towards the house. From his pocket he draws a thin oilskin packet and a heavy silver lighter. 

The dockside is near empty in the downpour, everyone not already out at sea sensibly tucked away in the warm and the dry. No-one sees a small motorboat pull up and moor, nor the two passengers step out onto the landing docks and exchange a heated kiss. In the coming days they do notice the disappearance of the smart white car which had been parked at the dockside, but most are too busy wondering about the mysterious fire on soldier island which razed the house to the ground. It had made it into all the national papers, and some international ones. 

In a hotel suite in Dublin Philip and Vera exchange a smile over the Evening Herald, and begin to plan their anniversary.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Lofty for giving this a quick read through for errors. Title is another traditional English playground rhyme, similarly spooky in tone.


End file.
